


True Believers

by Anefi



Series: Anefi's Transformers Works [17]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Agender Character, Agender Cosmos, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/pseuds/Anefi
Summary: A scrapbook of snapshots from Clemency, MA.Chapter 1: A brief history of the Clemency Decepticons, as told by those left behindChapter 2: Sanctuary Co-op Orchard and FarmChapter 3: This is how it endsChapter 4: The Scavengers ride shopping cartsChapter 5: Cosmos and Soundwave go on a dateChapter 6: Krok and Spinister were kids, onceChapter 7: What everyone else was doing while Fulcrum stood outside
Relationships: Cosmos/Soundwave (Transformers), Fulcrum/Misfire (Transformers)
Series: Anefi's Transformers Works [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918825
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	1. The Stage Abandoned, The Scene is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [The Bouncing Souls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBoyXhiu0MU)! Playlist for the Clemency universe is [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLcUN6gSUqtqcLhGwnk4ICnZhOV0tBk9oo) :D
> 
> Huge, heartfelt appreciation for everyone who has said nice things about this universe on tumblr and discord. Like oatmeal, you sustain me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief history of the Decepticons, as told by those left behind.

“Where do I even start,” Crankcase said. “Okay. You know how before he started teaching, Megatron was in politics?”

That sounded vaguely familiar. Fulcrum scratched his head under his beanie. “Uh. He was some kind of activist, right?”

Krok put his hands over his face. “ _Some kind of activist_.”

They were huddled around the kitchen table on mismatched chairs, a Jenga tower half-built in the middle, while the wind howled outside. The late season nor’easter promised to dump a foot of snow at least, but for now it was mostly an ominous wind rattling the windows, making the old house shudder.

“Yeah,” Crankcase said. “Him and Starscream and Soundwave and a few others had this anarchist group—”

“Starscream? The _mayor_? _Mayor Starscream_? Re-elected from federal prison _Mayor Starscream_?” Fulcrum boggled. “And our _landlord_?”

“Look, do you want to hear this or not? It’s going to take all night if you keep interrupting me every five seconds.”

Krok made an irritated noise. “They made promises and couldn’t keep them. That’s all that matters,” he said. “Maybe they meant to, maybe they didn’t.”

“They did some stuff,” Spinister said. “The river, the highway. H284-7, with the voting whatever.”

“Election reform. Yeah. Wetlands protection measures were passed after that factory explosion, then the park, and they found a whistleblower who got the whole highway planning commission kicked out on their asses right before they were supposed to break ground on the extension,” Krok said, picking up steam. “There was the soup kitchen, that discrimination lawsuit, the scholarships, hell, the _art_ program—"

Crankcase threw up his hands. “Okay, fine, _you_ tell it.”

“Wait,” Fulcrum said, “All of this sounds good, though.”

“It _was_ ,” Krok said. “It made a difference in people’s lives. In the city. It was _important_.” He was shaking, a little, hands clenched in fists.

“Then what—why are you so mad at them?”

Nobody interrupted for the long moment Krok struggled to package the festering hurt into words. Their mugs of hot chocolate steamed in the chill air. “They gave up,” Krok finally said. “They _stopped_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #buddy cianci is starscream's g1 holoavatar


	2. Sanctuary, LLC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some soft as hell Coswave! They own a farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cosmos + Soundwave + impeccable for helloshepard!
> 
> and if you keep ENCOURAGING ME I might just, I don't know, WRITE MORE!

Cosmos made the turn onto the gravel road just as the last brilliant slice of red sun dipped below the crest of a hill. In the soft light, the weathered cedar split-rail fence running along the side of the orchard was a welcome guide. At the gate, though, there was a new addition: a black iron lantern hung like a beacon from the dark welded arch of the sign for Sanctuary. The road twined through crooked ranks of gnarled trees, and despite how eagerly Cosmos was looking for the cheerful glow of the farmhouse, the car slowed to a crawl. There were four other cars parked by the house already; it looked like everyone was home but Ravage. One of the outbuildings was lit up too, Buzzsaw’s studio windows flashing bright with the white spit of an arc welder and shaking with a bass line. None of the chickens were scratching around out front, so they must have been put up for the night already, but when Cosmos scootched out of the driver’s seat, shut the door, and reached for the first glimmering stars, breathing in the rich smell of fallen apples and moldering leaves, a shaggy white rocket careened around the corner of the house and tried to take Cosmos out at the knees.

“Doc!” Cosmos reached down, laughing, to say hello to the best dog and pick some leaves out of his fur.

The house’s front door slammed, and then Soundwave was there. Cosmos’s breath caught. Tall and lanky where Cosmos was round, in dusty jeans and mismatched socks and one of Cosmos’s battered green sweaters, he was a sight for sore eyes. “Hi,” Cosmos breathed, as giddy as—well, not the first time they met. The fourth or fifth date, maybe.

The little quirk of Soundwave’s lips was as good as a grin on anyone else. “How was the drive?”

Cosmos made a face. “ _Long_. But pretty. The leaves are still turning in Connecticut and New York; they’re a few weeks behind us here.”

Soundwave hummed in acknowledgement. “Hungry?”

Cosmos perked up. “Why? What do we have?”

“Come and see.” He stepped aside to usher Cosmos into the spill of warm light from the house. Cosmos made the detour, first, to catch him in a tight hug, snuggling in against the spare planes of his chest.

“I missed you,” Cosmos said, muffled.

“Cosmos… was also missed,” Soundwave said, bringing his hand up, gentle, to the back of Cosmos’s head.

Cosmos shifted enough to pretend to glare at him. “By you.”

“By many.” Soundwave tilted his head, like he was thinking about it. “Doc. Laserbeak. Henrietta.” Their smallest, and bossiest, chicken.

“But especially you,” Cosmos insisted.

With another one of those secretive smiles, Soundwave leaned down to press their foreheads together. “By me.” Cosmos slowly felt the last of the stress of the trip drain away in the closeness and warmth. Inside, there was a pan of lasagna waiting and another pan of brownies, and corn on the cob from the garden out back. Cosmos was happy to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very Important Note: Doc is an Old English Sheepdog :)


	3. So Eden Sank to Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how the dream dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by slashrawr: Megatron, Soundwave. Susurration.

It was a cold Tuesday in February on an empty beach, the kind of grey where the clouds are low and the water is high and there’s just enough directionless light to blur the line where the waves become the sky. The wind from that distant limbo tore whitecaps into the surf, rattled the dry dune grass, swept sharp fronts of sand across the deserted shore. Megatron, too, seemed washed out, beaten thin, in a way Soundwave had never seen before. They walked in silence for some time. Soundwave’s ears and fingers were numb, scoured by salt air, but he thought he was braced for whatever storm was coming. At the end of the spit, they could go no further. Megatron turned around.

“Deadlock went to the feds,” he said.

It took Soundwave a minute to sort out a logical reaction to that absurdity. Uneven ground shifted beneath his feet, sand creeping in through the holes in his shoes. “He was caught?”

“No.”

That was the day it ended. A dream died, on that desolate shoal. The Decepticons were over.

“Ravage is never going to forgive you,” Soundwave said, much later.

“I know,” Megatron said. “I hope that someday, you will.”


	4. Knights of Hill Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anon prompt: I'm TRYING to think of something for your prompt format but music is on the brain. I have like 3 songs good for prompts. :\ Three options pick one? 🎵 Muse's Knights of Cydonia 🎵 Jem's Just a Ride 🎵 Semisonic's Singing in my Sleep 🎵
> 
> Knights of Cydonia made me think of that panel where the Scavengers ride across the plains of Tebris VII on equine roboids, but from there I went to... this

They were on their way home, still cheerfully tipsy, when Misfire found the shopping cart. They’d been having what these days passed for a normal conversation – Misfire was thinking about changing the sub gif on his twitch stream – when he stopped mid-gesture, made a noise more avian than human, and dived off the sidewalk into a frozen creek bed.

“Oh, score,” Spinister said. He, Krok, and Crankcase dropped down after him with enthusiastic whoops; Fulcrum was not the _least_ bit tempted to follow.

“Star Market,” he read off the rusting basket when Misfire and Crankcase wrestled their prize up the embankment and onto the street. “Isn’t that like, four miles away? On the other side of the river?”

“Yeah,” Misfire said, “mostly uphill, too, and I almost lost it in traffic when it rolled off the curb on Spring Street.”

Fulcrum fully expected that someday, he would lose his last residual capacity for surprise. “You know, before I met you, I’d sometimes see shopping carts on the side of the road and think, ‘huh, I wonder how that got there,’” he said.

“That’s weird, Fulcrum. Hey, see if you can find another one around here too.”

Crankcase stood up from testing the wheels. “The back left bearing is a little rusty, but she’ll fly,” he pronounced.

“I got it,” Krok yelled, his voice echoing strangely in the drainpipe under the road. He and Spinister appeared, dragging another shopping cart that was, if anything, even rustier.

“Hold on,” Fulcrum said, “ _Why_ are we all getting tetanus today?”

Misfire’s slow, conspiratorial grin was, as always… worrying.

“He’s a Hill Street virgin,” Crankcase said.

“Don’t worry, Fulcrum,” Misfire crooned. “You can ride with me. I’ll be your seatbelt.”

Fulcrum looked between them with growing alarm.

All too soon, the two shopping carts were lined up on the highest crest of Hill Street, side by side, facing the plummeting drop, Spinister in one basket with Krok steering, Misfire and Fulcrum at Crankcase’s mercy. The sky was a moonless black, floating high above the orange moss of city lights spread out from the hill below. Their breath iced in the still air.

Krok turned to Crankcase. “You want to wear your helmet?”

“You’re not my real dad,” Crankcase said.

“Alright, then. Try not to die.”

“If you do, we’re splitting your stuff,” Spinister added.

“Statistically,” Fulcrum said, “how likely is it, would you say, that we crash?”

“It’s not so much a question of _if_ as _when_ ,” Crankcase mused.

“I’ve got you,” Misfire said, with likely unwarranted confidence. “See you losers on the other side,” he said to the rest of them.

Despite the certain danger, high likelihood of injury, and possible chance of death, Fulcrum couldn’t bring himself to protest again, let alone escape; Misfire’s deceptively strong arms were tight around him, bracketing legs braced against the front of the shopping cart basket, breath warm on his neck. “YOLO?” he said uncertainly.

Krok counted down. “Three… two—”

Crankcase pushed off.

“—Hey!”

Laughing and yelling and maybe screaming a little (Fulcrum), they flew down the twisting street, rattling and skidding, tipping onto two wheels, launching into heart-stopping skips through the air. Buildings and streetlights blurred together as they rocketed toward the beacons of tall buildings downtown, closer and brighter than the distant stars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Providence, RI inspires a lot of Clemency, MA, and one of my favorite things there is [WaterFire](https://www.google.com/search?q=water+fire+providence&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjQ35vToZrtAhWVqZ4KHbUHBw8Q_AUoAXoECBcQAw&biw=1573&bih=1100&dpr=0.8), an amazing event that started as an art installation on the canal through downtown.
> 
> I haven’t decided if Clemency has its own version ( ~~stolen from~~ inspired by the original) or if they just went to Providence for the night, but here’s a flashback to when Soundwave and co lived in the Scav house: Soundwave and Cosmos on a date!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sliverscrap prompted: Soundwave/Cosmos + illumination

The warm smell of roasting nuts drifted up from the street vendor to the roof of the studio building, where Soundwave and Cosmos could watch the festival from above the milling crowds. Spotlit silhouettes of the downtown skyline on the other side of the sunken canal cut pieces from the velvet sky, shades of black on black above still black water.

“This is so nice,” Cosmos said, peering down on the cheerful puddles of light dotting the stone brick promenade and plaza. “I had no idea anything like this happened here. Is that guy doing performance origami?” Dexterous fingers fiddled with the lens cap of the camera hanging against Cosmos’s thick green sweater.

“Yes,” Soundwave said, a little amused; there was a rapt circle of kids around the artist’s soapbox. “There are—others, too.” Cosmos hadn’t met Laserbeak and Buzzsaw yet, but they were performing by the monument in the park, hunched in elaborate costumes of painted feathers and carved foam as living gargoyles.

Soundwave reached out to rest a hand on Cosmos’s bouncing knee. “It’s about to begin.”

“You’ve been so mysterious,” Cosmos teased. “What else is there? I saw tents for vendors on the other street, and those big speakers everywhere—oh, what’s that?”

A high, clear, soaring note sung out from the speakers along the canal. The murmur of the crowd died away as it quavered away into silence, replaced by a drifting, ethereal chord that slowly unfolded to a haunting melody. All eyes on the crowded shore turned expectantly toward the water. With a gentle pressure on Cosmos’s knee, Soundwave pointed silently up the canal. A flickering wisp of orange light appeared, dipping and rising, mirrored in the water below. A torch, carried at the bow of a low boat by figures indistinct in the dark. In its wake, at every place the torch paused, small spitting fires stirred to life, flames creeping up through leaning stacks of wood logs in braziers on the water line, reaching higher and higher.

“Oh,” Cosmos said. “Oh, wow.”

Soundwave had spent more nights than he could remember hypnotized by the string of bonfires and their dancing reflections, but every time, he still found himself transfixed. A glance to the side found Cosmos in rapture, soft lips fallen open and eyes wide, taking in every detail, camera momentarily forgotten in lax hands. “It’s beautiful,” Cosmos said, hushed.

“Yes,” Soundwave agreed. Instead of turning back to the procession on the canal, he found himself trying to memorize the play of warm light and tiny changes of expression on Cosmos’s face.

When Cosmos looked up and caught him staring, Soundwave expected more teasing. Instead, they bit back a smile, and looked down—the light was too dim to tell if Cosmos was blushing, but Soundwave felt his own small smile fight to emerge in response. Cosmos lifted the camera – certainly not hiding behind it – and started snapping pictures.

Eventually, the two of them climbed down from the rooftop and explored the rest of the promenade. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw harassed Soundwave as much as they could without breaking character when he went to find them in the park, but the way Cosmos laughed was worth the indignity of two faux-stone gargoyles pretending to groom him and stealing his shoe.

Cosmos and Soundwave ended the night on the stone steps down to the water, close enough to the fires to be warm despite the winter chill. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” Cosmos said shyly, fit in close along Soundwave’s side. “I can tell it’s important to you.” The glow of the fires was brighter here, stretched across the water, sending sparks into the sky.

Soundwave wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud, but Cosmos was becoming important to him, too. “I hoped you would like it,” he said instead.

Cosmos smiled up at him, somehow as free with their happiness as they were every other emotion. “I do.”

All in all, the night was a success. The date. Much better than their first few, disastrous attempts.

Soundwave found himself hoping Cosmos would never discover that Ravage was using the distraction to break into the forensics lab with Cosmos’s stolen key.


	6. Linoleum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krok and Spinister? They've known each other for ages. Eons. Geologic eras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for kidfic, elementary school kids fighting, and (unrelated) minor character death.
> 
> [The Science of Selling Yourself Short](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krXG307d4k8&list=PLcUN6gSUqtqcLhGwnk4ICnZhOV0tBk9oo&index=10) is the song I sort of consider an anthem for Krok and Spin growing up, but this chapter's song is [Linoleum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6axOY4PBusk).

On the second day of school, Krok saw the new kid in the parking lot, bleeding from asphalt scrapes on his elbows and knees, fists clenched and yelling, as three other kids ran away. Actually, he wasn’t new, not exactly; he’d been in third grade longer than any of them. This was his second year. Krok waited until the yelling trailed off to ragged gasps before he went over. “Hi,” he said, because asking if he was okay seemed dumb.

The new kid’s shoulders were shaking. “Screw off,” he said hoarsely.

Krok squinted at the new kid, then off to where Getaway and his friends were beating feet down the block. “Those guys are jerks,” he said. “I’m glad you hit them.”

The not-new kid was like a foot taller than Krok when he stood up straight, even not counting his spiky black hair. His purple t-shirt was too small, with a hole in the hem, now dotted with darkening blood. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. “You’re not supposed to hit people,” he said.

“Yeah,” Krok agreed. “Did you know you’re bleeding?”

He looked down at his hands, then his elbows. “Oh.”

“I could help,” Krok offered.

Krok’s Babcia’s apartment was a few streets over from the school. On the way there, he learned that his new friend’s name was Spin. “I’m not dumb,” Spin said fiercely while Krok picked gravel out of his elbow and blotted with a wad of paper towels. “I just can’t write good.”

“Writing is dumb,” Krok said. He could read pretty good in English and Polish, but sometimes he still got confused which letters made which sounds when he was writing. “Anyone who says you’re dumb, _they’re_ dumb.” Spin was at least two years older than anyone else in their class, practically a big kid who happened to be stuck at their level. Especially now that they knew he would fight, anyone who said anything _had_ to be stupid.

When Babcia woke up from her nap, she clucked over them and then made kolaczki with fig and plum and strawberry jam so Spin could try them all. He didn’t stay for dinner that night, but they sat next to each other in class the next day, and then he came over again. When the new after school program started, they both went, and then they went home to Babcia afterward. By the time they were in high school, he slept at Krok’s place more often than his own. A lot of Spinster’s best memories had a background smell of boiled cabbage.

They lost Babcia Krok’s junior year of college. He almost dropped out, but Spinister made sure he showered at least every few days, and went to important classes even if he hadn’t, or got the notes. Every year afterward, in the depths of February, they lit a candle and made kolaczki by themselves. It was never quite right, but they kept trying.


	7. Some of Them Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This started out as just a little writing exercise with a sentence in everybody's POV, but I kind of like how it sets the stage.

It was two hours till house dinner, and Crankcase hadn’t eaten anything since the three cups of coffee he’d substituted for lunch, and he had to finish the last question on his problem set before he got sucked into the inevitable round of Shoot Shoot Bang Bang. The bread was where he left it, because nobody else ate pumpernickel, which was why he bought it. “Where’s the mayo?” he asked Krok.

“It’s—”

“Never mind, I found it.”

Krok sighed. He shifted on the old couch to slightly improve the light and squinted at the tiny British soldier braced between his thumb and forefinger. “Is that cuff coloring too orange?” he asked Spinister.

“I don’t think anyone’s still alive from the Napoleonic wars who could say for sure,” Spinister said. The dark blue base coat on the coats (ha!) of the miniatures had deepened nicely, so Spinister’s job now was detailing the cords and buttons in tiny strokes of gold. He had one brush made from a toothpick glued to an eyelash, and another with three hairs from a feral cat. He was very careful with that one. He didn’t want to have to find that cat again.

Upstairs, Misfire was busy killing and dying and chatting with his Twitch stream. “You guys know how I’ve been talking about someone new moving into our house, right? He’s getting here tonight! I’ve gotta tell you, I’m pretty excited.” Two viewers left the channel.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as decepticon-propaganda, if you want to say hello!


End file.
